


(probably) the world's biggest ball of yarn

by gutsforgarters



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Demisexuality, Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Older Man/Younger Woman, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23722042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/pseuds/gutsforgarters
Summary: Daryl's never crossed state lines in his whole life, but that's about to change now that his estranged brother's out on parole and asking for one last favor. He just wants to make it to Arizona without bumping into any trouble along the way, so of course trouble finds him in the form of a teen runaway with a stack of pretty bracelets on her wrist and a deep well of sorrow lurking in the shadows of her sunny smile. Daryl's never had to look out for anyone but himself and Merle before, but surely even he can handle one teenager for the duration of one road trip, right?Yeah. Right.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Merle Dixon, Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene
Comments: 35
Kudos: 88





	1. never thought I'd meet a girl like you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/gifts), [redbelles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbelles/gifts).



> For Maj, who enabled me, and who convinced me to use this title when she sent me a text message essay on yarn as a metaphor for love. And! For Meg, who put together a breathtakingly beautiful gifset for my canon-verse fic, Marlboro Man. All chapter titles are taken from songs on [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2pdl0XUHlCFOhbTScDrxpa?si=4-lvDYfiQmyNT7SFP_qVww).
> 
> Finally, Beth is seventeen in this fic, and I trust you all to be adults and decide for yourselves whether or not that squicks you! This fic will not contain any MCD, graphic violence, or rape, although there will be references to the latter, as well as sexual harassment. Read safely, everyone 💛

**KING COUNTY, GEORGIA**

“How’s my baby doin’?”

Daryl’s not surprised that the first thing his brother asks about after picking up the phone is his goddamn bike. He’s had the thing for over half of Daryl’s life, and he’s more loyal to it than he’s ever been to any woman. Still, considering that Daryl’s gearing up to drive clear across the damn country to bring him the fucking thing, you’d think his brother could at least ask how _he’s_ been doing. Ain’t like he expects a “hello” from Merle, but he could at least check that Daryl hasn’t been mugged or shot or put in a chokehold since they last time they spoke.

“Your hog’s fine.” Daryl’s mug of black coffee has long since cooled to sludge, but he still takes a long draw off of it, anyway, because the coffee may be shit, but caffeine’s caffeine, and he’s gonna need it if he doesn’t wanna fall asleep at the wheel and drive off the fucking road. “You want me to kiss the damn thing g’night for you, too?”

“Smartass,” says Merle, but there’s a bark of fond laughter in his voice. “You been keepin’ her warm for me? Can’t let her engine go gettin’ rusty, now. Ya gotta take her for a spin every once an’ awhile, keep her young.”

Daryl wipes his mouth and sets his drained mug back down; cranes a look over his shoulder but fails to find a waitress. Well, whatever. That was his fourth mug of the stuff, and while he sure as shit doesn’t wanna fall asleep at the wheel, he doesn’t wanna jump at every shadow, neither.

Merle whistles down the line, sharp and tuneless. “You still alive, boy?”

Daryl briefly considers pretending that the call dropped and hanging up, only he knows for a fucking fact that he’d catch all manner of hell for it sooner or later, and he ain’t in the mood to deal with that shit. Never is, matter fact.

“The coffee here ain’t as toxic as it looks, so, yeah. Guess I am.” That pulls another laugh outta Merle, and Daryl squashes that old, pleased rush he still sometimes gets out of meeting with his big brother’s approval, ’cause it’s been a good long while since he’s cared about impressing Merle, and he needs to remember that. “I take it out when I can. Prob’ly won’t get a lotta chances to now, you want me to get there soon.”

“Sure you will. Just park the truck an’ take ’er out for a joyride. Wouldn’t kill ya to be a couple days late.”

Maybe it won’t, but Daryl just wants to get this over and done with. The bike’s engine’s not gonna turn to rust in the time it takes him to drive to Arizona.

Well, probably won’t, anyway. Daryl’s never driven outta Georgia before, let alone cross country, so what the hell does he know?

Before he can say anything else—if he even wanted to say anything else—Merle’s already jumped to the next topic that can hold his attention for longer than five minutes.

“Y'know, little brother, it don’t gotta be a two-way trip.”

Daryl looks around for a waitress again but can’t spot an apron and a uniform for the life of him. What, they all go on break at once?

“I’unno what you’re talkin’ ’bout,” he mumbles, tracing the lip of his mug with his forefinger, only, yeah, he does. He knows, because they’ve already been over this a thousand goddamn times, but trust Merle to keep beating a dead horse.

Merle makes a noise like he wants to spit, and Daryl’s just surprised that he doesn’t follow through. “Don’t bullshit me, boy. What’s keepin’ you in Georgia, anyhow? Nothin’, that’s what.”

Merle’s got a point, which only makes Daryl that much more determined to fight him on this. “Yeah? An’ what’s fuckin’ _Arizona_ got to offer me, huh? Hard time?”

“Not if you’re a good lil’ boy,” Merle drawls, and Daryl would flip him off if he could see him do it. “C’mon, Darylina. Arizona ain’t half bad. I’m makin’ a good life for myself here. You could too, if ya got the fuck over yourself.”

Daryl props his elbow on the sticky tabletop and chews agitatedly at his thumbnail, knowing that if Merle were here, he’d slap his hand away and tell him to knock that shit off. Always says it’s _unsanitary_ , like a guy who can only remember to use a rubber half the damn time’s got any room to talk.

“What’s so fuckin’ great about Arizona, anyhow? Thought you’d be haulin’ ass outta there the second you weren’t behind bars no more.”

Merle says, “I’m on parole, dumbass,” like it’d be the first time he broke parole. “An’ I got myself a steady woman, now.”

Daryl snorts. “That right?”

“Well,” says Merle, and Daryl doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s sporting a shit-eating grin. “Got a woman I’m fuckin’ on the regular, anyhow. She can be a real bitch sometimes, but y’know I like ’em spunky.”

Yeah, Daryl’s seen Merle come home from enough one-night stands with lurid red handprints standing out on his face to know _that_ shit for fucking certain.

Daryl scrapes his thumbnail through a brown-ish film of residue that might be syrup and might be spilled soda, cutting a thin white line through the grime. “So ya found yourself an old lady who ain’t sick’a your shit jus’ yet. Hell’s it got to do with me?”

“Look, asshole, all I’m sayin’ is, maybe it’s time ya followed in my footsteps an’ settled down with a lady’a your own, an’ if you’re gonna, ya might as well do it out here. Georgia ain’t never done shit for either of us.”

Daryl doesn’t know why he’s digging his heels in, here. Well, he knows why he doesn’t wanna _settle down_ or whatever the fuck, but it ain’t like he don’t got everything that’s worth something to him already piled into the back of his truck, and as much as he doesn’t wanna admit it even to himself, Merle was right about Georgia never doing either of them any favors.

’Cause Daryl spent most of his adult life drifting around with Merle, and after Merle fucked off out west and got his stupid ass thrown in the clink, he drifted on his own because that was all he knew, taking odd jobs where he could get them and trying to decide if he felt more lonely or liberated. He still ain’t found the answer to that question, and he’s starting to think he never will.

Arizona might not have much to offer him, but neither does where he is. And at least Merle’s in Arizona, even if all _he’s_ ever really done for Daryl is get him into trouble. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s Daryl’s pain in the ass. He’s familiar, and he’s the only family he’s got left.

“Jus’ think about it, alright?” Merle wheedles. “I got a nice place. Nicer than wherever you been stayin’ lately, anyhow.”

Daryl cranes another look over his shoulder, ’cause he might’ve given up on getting that coffee, but he’s gonna need the check if he wants to find a place to stay for the night before it’s already morning again. “Your place, or your old lady’s?”

Merle snickers, and Daryl can just imagine him leaning back in a recliner, flipping through whatever shit’s on the TV at this time of night. “Heh. Got me there.”

But Daryl’s not really paying him any attention anymore, ’cause it’s been snagged by somebody else. Not by a waitress, though.

No. By a girl.

Not in that way. Not in the way most men look at women. Daryl’s never looked at a woman in _that way_ in his whole life—never looked at a _man_ in that way, neither, no matter how many times Merle and their dad called him queer—and he’s not looking at this girl like that now. She looks like a damn kid, for starters, short and skinny as a reed with legs as gangly as baby giraffe’s sticking outta her cutoffs, and Daryl’s eyes probably would’ve slid right past her if he hadn’t happened to notice where she was heading.

And where she’s headed, is toward a row of truckers squatting on the stools in front of the counter.

She’s got a backpack slung over her shoulders. It’s greenish blue—turquoise, he thinks most folks would call it, like the stone—and Daryl would bet the loose change he was gonna tip his waitress that this dumb kid’s run the fuck away from home. And it ain’t Daryl’s business, only now she’s struck up a conversation with one of the truckers, tangled blonde ponytail bobbing as she talks, and the guy barely gives her face a glance before fixating on her legs.

Daryl braces his arm on the back of the booth, Merle still chattering away in his ear, and looks on as the girl seems to catch on to what a creep the guy is, backing off a step and shaking her head. The guy sitting beside the first scowls at him and pushes at his shoulder, but the first guy doesn’t listen to whatever his buddy’s saying. Nah, he reaches out and snags the girl’s frail-looking wrist before she can get away, reeling her back in and clutching her so tight his grip looks fit to snap her arm like a dry twig.

 _Fuck_. Daryl does _not_ wanna deal with this.

Except now he’s saying, “Talk to you later,” and hanging up before Merle can finish protesting, getting to his feet and making a beeline toward the counter with his head lowered like a charging bull’s, so fuck what he wants, he guesses.

“Man,” the second trucker’s saying, still holding the first one’s flannel jacket in his fist but not actually looking invested enough to clock him in the jaw like he deserves. “Just leave her the hell be, alright?”

The girl sure as hell _looks_ like she’s in agreement with the second guy, but the first angles his thigh in front of his crotch when she makes like she’s gonna knee him in the balls. “Get _off_ of me,” she says, which would be kinda funny if the overall situation definitely wasn’t. Most people’d be swearing by now.

“Mind ya damn business,” the first guy says to his buddy, ignoring the girl like her all struggling’s no more worth noticing than a buzzing fly. “Just tryna have a lil’ friendly conversation, is all. Ain’t against the law to talk to a woman, is it?”

“Nah,” Daryl agrees, and all three of them look up at him with wide eyes like they didn’t even notice him coming. They probably didn’t, because he’s pretty damn quiet for a guy his size. “It ain’t. Dunno how the cops’d feel about ya puttin’ your hands on a goddamn kid, though.”

The creep narrows his eyes, mouth twisting like he just tasted something sour. “Yeah,” he drawls. “You’d know all about cops, wouldn’t ya, you fuckin’ redneck?” He squeezes the girl’s wrist tight enough to make her whimper and gives her a shake like he’s trying to rile Daryl up, and—

And it works, actually, ’cause as soon as he hears the girl make that noise, soon as he sees the guy shake her like some asshole kid with a helpless puppy, Daryl’s grabbing hold of _his_ wrist, squeezing hard enough to make the guy yelp and loosen his fingers, and then he’s using the grip he’s got on him to toss him back against the counter, stool wobbling beneath him. 

It’s just a damn shame that the guy doesn’t tip the fuck over and break his nose on the fucking linoleum.

The rest of the guys who’re sitting at the counter—three of them, minus the first two—have finally sat up and taken notice. From the way the back of his neck’s itching, and from the way the tinny music coming outta the ancient jukebox’s gotten clearer, Daryl thinks the rest of the diner’s must paying attention, too.

Daryl figures he’s got two more minutes, tops, before he gets tossed outta here on his ass, so in the spirit of making those two minutes count, he leans in close enough to smell the tobacco on the trucker’s breath, for _him_ to feel Daryl’s breath on _his_ face, and says, “You wanna keep your hands, you keep ’em to yourself, you got me?”

He squeezes the guy’s wrist to underline his point, even harder than he had the last time. The guy goes white behind his beard, but then he grits his teeth and says in a voice that wavers too much for the bluster he’s tryna pull off, “What, she with you or somethin’?”

Daryl’s nearly surprised into letting the guy go, and he almost tells the truth on instinct. But, nah. He knows guys like this, ’cause they were the kinds of guys Merle used to run with back when he was in his motorcycle club. Guys like this won’t let a woman be unless they’re too scared of her husband or boyfriend to bother.

And even if this guy ain’t _quite_ pissing himself with fear yet, Daryl figures he’s scared enough.

So he says, “Yeah,” real quick, ’cause he ain’t never been no good at lying, and he wants to get this out fast before the guy can read the truth in his face. “Yeah, she sure the fuck is. You got somethin’ to say about that?”

The guy scowls, but then he shakes his head no. In his periphery, Daryl sees the second guy breathe out a silent sight of what’s probably relief.

Daryl lets the guy go, but he backs off nice and easy, not wanting to get caught off guard with a sucker punch to the gut. The asshole stays put, though, so Daryl reaches for the girl without looking at her and snags a handful of her t-shirt, pulling her along with him and not turning around until they’re well out of the guy’s reach.

He stops at his table long enough top pull some cash out of his wallet and toss it down—still doesn’t have the check, but he knows how much a cup of coffee costs here and he can do the math—before mumbling, “C’mon,” and pinching the girl’s shirt in his fist again to haul her toward the exit.

He can feel at least a dozen sets of eyes on him the whole way, and he doesn’t start to relax until after the door’s banged shut behind them. Doesn’t stay relaxed for long, though, ’cause now he’s rounding on the girl to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing.

Or he was _gonna_ ask her that, but the words he meant to snap at her wither on his tongue when he finally gets a good look at her face. The streetlights illuminating the parking lot reflect in her eyes and turn the blue of her irises electric, and now Daryl feels a little bit like he’s been sucker punched in the gut, after all.

He blinks like he’s trying to dispel sunspots from his vision, and remembers too late that he doesn’t actually know how to talk to women, let alone teenage girls.

 _Fuck_.

“Um, hey.” The girl tucks a dandelion wisp of pale hair behind her ear and smiles tentatively up at him, like she can’t decide if he’s better or worse than the asshole he saved her from but might be leaning toward the former. “Thanks for what you did back there. I, uh, I’ve got pepper spray in my bag, but it’s kinda hard to reach for when you can only use one hand, y’know?”

Pepper spray, huh? Is she just trying to explain why she had a hard time fighting back on her own, or is she trying to drop a hint that _he_ best mind his manners now that she _does_ have both hands to work with?

Daryl shoves _his_ hands into his pockets and points his eyes at the scuffed toes of his boots. He still don’t know how to talk to girls, but he’s just annoyed enough to manage, long as he doesn’t make prolonged eye contact.

“Was a real dumbass move,” he mumbles, “goin’ up to some strange guy like that. Don’t they teach y’all about stranger danger in school?”

“Yup,” the girl says, not sounding particularly offended even though he just as good as called her stupid, “they do. So I probably shouldn’t be talkin’ to you, either.”

Daryl glances at her face and spots the half smile that’s lingering on her mouth. He’s pretty sure she’s only making fun of him, but he still says, “M’ the one who saved your ass, ain’t I?”

That half smile turns into a full smile, and then Daryl has to look away again. He can still hear it in her voice when she says, “Yeah, but maybe you just did it ’cause you wanted to me all to yourself.”

Yeah, she’s definitely making fun of him. “Fuck off,” he says. Should he be swearing like this in front of a kid? She doesn’t look like his bad language’s giving her a case of the vapors, though, so whatever. “Ain’t it past your bedtime? Don’t you got school in the mornin’ or some shit?”

She cocks her head at him, ponytail swinging like a pendulum. “It’s summer,” she points out. “And I haven’t had a _bedtime_ since I was, like, twelve.”

So maybe she’s not quite as young as he initially pegged her. Still a damn kid who ain’t got no business being out this late, though. He scuffs his foot across the pavement, asks, “You got someone you can call or somethin’? Come pick ya up?”

The girl’s face shutters, and, yeah. Looks like Daryl was right about the runaway thing. “No,” she says. “But I am lookin’ for a ride. How far you headed?”

What? “Huh?”

She shrugs and gives him a smile that’d look guileless if Daryl weren’t good enough at reading people to catch the calculated glint in her eyes.

“I need a ride,” she repeats, like she thinks he didn’t hear her right the first time. “And I figured you could give me one.”

If Daryl’d known that this shit was gonna happen, he’d’ve picked a different diner. Fuck that, actually—he’d’ve just stayed in bed. “Well, ya figured wrong. Ain’t about to get charged with kidnapping on account’a your skinny ass.”

 _Now_ she looks a little offended. “I’m not a _kid_.”

Spoken like a true kid. Daryl folds his arms and rocks back on his heels, giving her an unimpressed onceover. If she ain’t a good few years under eighteen, he’ll eat Merle’s bike.

“Yeah? How old _are_ ya, then?”

She chews on the corner of her lip, looking left to right like she’s trying to decide on something—probably on whether or not to tell him the truth. But she must be an honest kid, because then she grimaces, exhales, and says with so much resignation that Daryl can’t help but believe her, “Seventeen.”

Seventeen’s better than twelve, but that won’t make no difference to the cop that’ll inevitably pull him over and ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing with an underage-looking girl in his passenger seat. Don’t matter that Daryl ain’t interested in that kinda shit, least of all with some skinny-ass kid; a cop’s just gonna see a grungy grown man with a young girl, and he’ll draw the same conclusions that anyone else would. Hell, _Daryl’d_ probably draw that conclusion if the situation were reversed, ’cause he’s seen enough shit to always, always expect the worst from people, and they’ve yet to prove him wrong.

The world ain’t real kind to young girls with big Bambi eyes and thin frail wrists.

“Fuck, no,” he says, and has to curb stomp a surge of sympathy when the girl’s face falls. “All m’ gonna do is take you the fuck home.” He starts patting around for his keys, ignores his phone buzzing in his pocket. It won’t kill Merle to go to voicemail. “C’mon.”

Her face hardens, and she crosses her arms, bracelets jangling on her left wrist. The right’s already starting to bruise, and seeing that dark shadow on her fair skin makes Daryl’s gut twist up like a nest of snakes.

“You can’t take me home if you don’t know where I live,” she says reasonably. “And you’re not taking me anywhere _at all_ unless I let you.”

Actually, Daryl could always just pick her skinny ass up and bodily _toss_ her into his truck, but the diner’s got big, clear windows facing the parking lot, so no way would he get away with _that_ shit, no matter how noble his intentions.

He crosses his arms, too. “Could always call the cops on your ass; let _them_ deal with ya.”

The girl just arches one eyebrow at him, lips pursed, and, yeah. Daryl knows damn well what would happen if he got the cops involved, actually, and it wouldn’t end well for him. This girl must know it, too.

So maybe she’s not quite as naïve as she looks.

“Christ,” he mutters, clutching his keys so the metal teeth bite into his palm. “Fuck this shit; you ain’t my fuckin’ problem.” He turns to storm off into the parking lot, only to pull up short when the girl calls after him.

“You’re right,” she says. “I’m not. But whether it’s you who helps me or somebody else, I’m gonna get a ride somehow.”

Fuck. _Fuck_ , this is fucking blackmail. ’Cause maybe the next person she asks for a ride _won’t_ be a violent creep, but maybe they will. Maybe they’ll do a lot worse than grab her arm in a diner full of witnesses.

Daryl squeezes his eyes shut and breathes out hard through his nose. Grinds his knuckles against his forehead.

Tips his head back and scowls at the overcast night sky like it’s directly responsible for every ounce of shit he’s going through.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbles, then, louder, “Fine. Move your ass ’fore I change my damn mind.”

He hears the smack of her cowboy boots on the asphalt as she hurries on over, and then she’s trotting to keep up with him as he stalks toward the other side of the lot. She pauses when they get there, tilts her head and points.

“That your bike?”

Daryl unlocks the doors and climbs into the driver’s seat. A girl her size would probably need a boost to get into the cab, but that’s what the running board’s for.

“S’my brother’s,” he mumbles, and hauls the door shut.

He plugs the keys into the ignition and turns the engine over just as the girl jogs around to the other side of the cab and clambers inside.

“Where’s your brother?” she asks as she drags her door shut.

Daryl twists around and backs out of his spot. “Arizona,” he says, wondering why he’s answering her at all. Maybe he’s hoping that she’ll tire herself out and shut the hell up.

No such luck. “What’s your brother doin’ in Arizona?”

“Hell if I know,” Daryl says truthfully. He casts a sidelong look at the girl and says, with a mean kind of satisfaction, “Was in jail up until a month ago.”

“Oh.” Her backpack’s in her lap, and she fiddles with the straps. “What was he in jail for?”

“Cookin’ meth.”

“Oh,” she says again. He dares to hope that this’ll be the thing that finally shuts her up, but then she says, “You goin’ to see him?”

“Uh-huh.”

She hums, thoughtful like. “I’m headin’ out west, too, actually. So that works out.”

Fuck, how long’s he gonna be stuck with her for? “Where?” Maybe by _out west_ she just means _Oklahoma_. That’s not unbearably far.

She shrugs her thin shoulders. The light coming off a streetlamp catches on her face and illuminates her wry smile. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Daryl grunts noncommittally and turns onto the street. He thinks she’s finally shut up for good, but she proves him wrong when she asks, “What’s your name, anyway?”

He considers not answering her just to be an asshole, but what difference does it make? It’s just his name. “Daryl.”

He glances at her when he says it, which turns out to be a mistake, because then she smiles with her teeth, and he nearly drives the truck onto the goddamn curb.

“Nice to meet you, Daryl,” she says, and she even seems to mean it. “I’m Beth.” 


	2. you don't have to tell me what you're thinking

They don’t make it outta King County before midnight like Daryl was hoping they would, and he winds up pulling over at the first motel he sees, a one-floor building with three wings and a sign out front advertising air conditioning and color TV. If he’s honest, he’d’ve preferred the impersonal sterility of a Super 8, but there’re only a couple other cars in the lot, which means there oughta be plenty of rooms available, and that’s all that really matters to him.

The girl—Beth—finally shut up after she offered Daryl her name, and kept quiet the whole drive here—so quiet, in fact, that Daryl would’ve assumed she’d up and fallen asleep if the furtive, intermittent glances he’d thrown her hadn’t repeatedly proven that she was wide awake, hands folded in her lap and eyes on the highway. She’s kinda slumped in her seat, though, like the late hour’s finally getting to her, and she doesn’t sit up straight until Daryl parks by the door that’s marked _Reception_ and cuts the truck’s engine. That’s also when she starts rifling through that backpack of hers, a frown of concentration cutting shallow lines into her smooth young face, her lower lip pinched between her teeth.

Daryl doesn’t know what she’s doing, and he doesn’t particularly care—would’ve just hopped outta the cab without another look her way if she hadn’t made a little “Ah- _ha_ ” sound and yanked a wrinkled wad of bills out of her bag’s middle pocket. Then she holds it out like she expects him to take it.

Daryl looks at the cash. Looks at her. “Hell’m I s’posed to do with that?”

The pain in the ass actually rolls her eyes at him, like he just asked the world’s dumbest question and he’s lucky she’s got the patience to answer it.

“Make paper airplanes with it,” she says, then thrusts the clump of cash at him again like he’s a stripper and she wants to stuff it down his g-string. “What, did you think I was gonna make you pay my way for me?”

Actually, he was too busy stewing over his spontaneous promotion to babysitter to give it much thought either which way. He _does_ think that this girl oughta stop flashing her cash around all willy nilly if she doesn’t wanna get fucking mugged.

“Keep it,” he mumbles, and heaves his door open. “Ain’t takin’ money from no goddamn kid.”

He expects her to huff and stamp her foot over being called a _kid_ again, so it catches him a little off guard when she sticks out her chin and says, all reasonable, “Okay, Mr. Moneybags. Can _you_ afford to book two rooms every time we stop?”

Daryl scowls, ’cause she can probably tell just from looking at him that he can’t. He ain’t about to give her the satisfaction of admitting as much, though, so he just climbs out of the cab and points a warning finger in her face.

“Stay put,” he says, and shuts the door before she can open her mouth to give him more shit.

He wants to stop for a minute and grind his knuckles against the headache that’s throbbing in his temples, but he doesn’t want Beth to see him doing it, either, so he just sticks his hands in his pockets and slouches toward reception, wondering to himself if they’ve got any smoking rooms available. Places like this usually do, but given how his day’s gone so far, they probably actually won’t.

They don’t. The squirrely looking motel clerk kinda winces when he says so, like he kinda expects Daryl to haul off and clock him over it, like maybe he’s had the shit kicked outta him for less before. They do have two adjacent rooms available in the motel’s east wing—right by the vending machines, the guy hastens to add, like this’ll make up for Daryl not being allowed to smoke—and Daryl pays for them both with cash before collecting the keys—real metal keys, not plastic keycards—and heading back out to the truck.

The motel parking lot is much more dimly lit than the diner’s had been, and between that and the exhaustion that caffeine in his veins is fighting a losing battle against, Daryl’s convinced that he just ain’t seeing things right, that his truck’s not _actually_ empty. But things don’t change when he gets closer, when he steps off the sidewalk and onto the cracked asphalt; there’s no pale streak of hair glowing in the dark of the cab, no young girl waiting patiently for him to get back.

Daryl’s gut twists, and his fist clenches around the room keys hard enough to draw blood. Fuck, _fuck_ , he told her to stay fucking _put_ —and he’s got no goddamn idea why he’s freaking out about it the way he is, either, because he oughta be relieved, actually, if she up and ran off, ’cause that’s one less thing for him to worry about—

Except he doesn’t feel anything even approaching relief until Beth sits up from where she must’ve been reclining on the bench and blinks at him through the windshield like she can’t even begin to imagine the amount of panic he just went through in the span of five fucking seconds. And then she’s got the nerve to wave at him, and seeing her act like she didn’t just about give him a goddamn _heart attack_ twists what’s left of his draining panic into a hot knife of anger that slices him right between the eyes.

He yanks the passenger side door open and is distantly surprised when it doesn’t tear clean off its hinges. “What the fuck was that?”

If she’s scared by the way he’s acting, she doesn’t show it. “Sorry,” she says. “I haven’t gotten any sleep in—jeez—almost twenty-four hours now? I just wanted to lie down for a little bit.”

Daryl grinds his teeth. “It couldn’t wait five fuckin’ minutes?”

“I didn’t know how long you’d be in there for,” she says, so reasonably that it only stokes his temper even higher. But then she ducks her head and looks up at him from under her eyelashes, the picture of repentance. “Sorry if I worried you. I didn’t mean to.”

Daryl’s cheeks prickle with embarrassed heat. He doesn’t even _want_ to be stuck with this kid, and yet here the hell he is, fussing over her like a mother goddamn hen. Christ, if Merle could see him now.

“Wasn’t worried,” he mumbles, and shoves one of the keys at her. “Here. Rooms’re by the vending machines, you want a snack or somethin’.”

She takes they key from him, and he yanks his hand back quick when the tips of her fingers graze his. She pauses, then says, “Thanks. Do you know if they serve breakfast?”

“Clerk mentioned somethin’ ’bout that, yeah.” She nods, but he shuts her door before she can say anything else, circling the cab to hop into the driver’s seat and plug the keys into the ignition. He doesn’t bother to buckle up, just drives the truck across the lot and parks in front of their rooms, and Beth hops out almost as soon as he cuts the engine, that turquoise backpack slung over her thin shoulders, copper key peeking out from between her white fingers.

“Which one’s mine?” she asks, and Daryl points mutely to the door closest to the promised vending machines before hauling his duffle bag outta the truck bed and heading for his own room. He hears a door on the other side of the motel open and shut, feels Beth’s attention on him like a hand on the side of his face. He sticks the key into the lock and ducks inside.

The curtains are open, so he’s got enough light to see by to find the switch and flip it on. After a moment, the lamp set in the wall above the little round table flickers to grudging life, and he gives the place a cursory onceover.

It’s pretty much what he was expecting—single king-sized bed, chipped beige walls and brown shag carpeting, clunky TV on a plywood stand—and mostly he’s just grateful that it don’t got some kitschy _theme_ going on. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s gonna do if he ever has no choice but to stop at a fucking clown motel.

He crosses to the bed and drops his duffle before dropping himself, the rusty mattress springs squealing beneath the burden of his weight. His phone’s as good as a brick, battery drained, so he plugs that into the outlet to charge—swearing under his breath when he fumbles the prongs on the first two tries—and then leans back against the stack of flat pillows, blowing out a breath and rubbing his temples the way he wanted to earlier.

Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck is he supposed to do now? He agreed to drive the kid to wherever it was she needed to go because he didn’t wanna be liable for what might’ve happened to her if he _didn’t_ , but he didn’t think real far past that initial decision, either. He’s never been responsible for anyone but himself and Merle before, and he’s sure as hell never had to babysit a fucking teenage girl. He doesn’t know shit about teenagers—hell, he doesn’t think he knew shit about ’em even when he _was_ one.

He’d’ve been content to just sit there with his head in his hands for the rest of the night until he fell asleep slumped against the headboard, but like every other one of his plans, that shit flies clear out the window when a knock startles him out of his not-quite-nap. He lifts his head and squints at the door, but, nah—the tentative knocking hadn’t come from that direction.

There’s another knock, slightly more insistent than the first, and Daryl looks around the room in muzzy confusion before realizing that what he’d initially taken for a closet is actually a door with a lock that must connect to the adjoining room.

Beth’s room.

Daryl seriously considers just ignoring the pain in the ass until she gives up and leaves him be, but, even though he don’t know shit about her, he’s still got a sinking suspicion that she just might be the one person on the planet who could out-stubborn his ornery ass.

He heaves himself up from the mattress with a muttered, “Christ Almighty,” and stomps over to the connecting door, flipping the deadbolt and yanking it open to glare down his nose at her.

“What.”

Beth blinks up at him, forehead pleating like she’s somehow _surprised_ by his shitty attitude, like she didn’t see enough of it for herself back in the diner’s parking lot. What the hell is she bugging him for, anyhow?

“Uh.” Her shoes are off, bare toes sinking so deep into the shag carpeting it’s like they’re not even there, like they’ve been amputated. “It’s nothin’, really. I was just wonderin’ if—if you maybe wanted some company?”

God knows why she phrases it like a question, ’cause Daryl thinks the answer is pretty damn obvious.

“I look like I want company?” he asks, even as he wonders why in the hell _she_ would want _his_.

She wrinkles her nose like a little bunny rabbit, like maybe she’s not sure herself. “Maybe a little?”

Girl must think she’s cute. But _Daryl_ sure the hell doesn’t, and he ain’t about to indulge her ass, neither. “Jesus Christ, you bored or somethin’? Can’t you jus’ go watch TV ’stead’a buggin’ the hell outta me?” 

“There’s nothin’ good on at this hour,” says Beth, and even Daryl has to grudgingly—if silently—concede that point. She sticks out her hands, and that’s when Daryl notices they’re full. “I stopped by the vending machines. You want any’a this?”

As if on cue, Daryl’s stomach chooses that moment to gurgle, and he flushes clear to his hairline when Beth bites her lip like she’s trying not to laugh. He crosses his arms and mutters, “Nah.”

Beth doesn’t look like she believes him, but she also shrugs like it’s no skin off her nose. “Guess I’ll just have to eat it all myself,” she says airily, and ducks around him before he can stop her, waltzing into his room like she owns the damn place and curling up in the lone chair.

Daryl stares after her, hands twitching uselessly at his sides. Fuck, who the hell does this kid thinks she is, exactly? And does she not realize that he could physically pick her ass up and toss her out of his room without so much as breaking a damn sweat?

But he won’t. He wouldn’t. Goddamn brat probably knows it, too, like she’s already got a read on him and knows just how far she can safely push him. Like he’s an open book and not the most closed-up sonofabitch there ever was.

Grumbling to himself, Daryl slouches back to the bed, toeing off his boots before reclaiming his spot against the headboard. And even though Beth was right about there not being anything on worth watching at this time of night, he still grabs the boxy little remote and clicks on the TV, facing the screen kinda pointedly and trying not to notice the blur of pale blonde hair in his periphery. If he ignores her long enough, maybe she’ll take the hint and scat.

Yeah. And maybe he’ll win the goddamn lottery.

He hears plastic rattling, then the crunch of what’s probably potato chips between chewing teeth. Hears her swallow, too, even over the late-night sports broadcast that he couldn’t give less of a fuck about, like he’s attuned to everything she does on a visceral level.

That ain’t it, though. He was never real good at being around other people, to the point that the sound of somebody breathing too loudly’s enough to set him on edge. He can’t hardly spend ten minutes with someone he doesn’t know well without wanting to crawl out of his own skin, and right now he’s picking at his fingers and peeling off a hangnail like he really does intend to do exactly that.

He hears her unscrew a cap and swallow, washing down the chips. She was juggling a soda and a bottle of water, and he wonders which one she’s drinking now, then wonders why he cares.

“So are you on vacation or somethin’?”

What is this, Twenty Questions? Daryl finally looks at her—Coke, she’s drinking Coke—and says, “Why you askin’?”

“I mean, Arizona’s a long way from Georgia. Didja have to take a lotta time off from work?”

“Nah.” It’s technically true, seeing as he hasn’t held a steady job since…ever, actually.

“What about the rest of your family? They didn’t wanna visit your brother, too?” 

Christ, she just had to go and prod one of his sore spots, didn’t she? And it ain’t like she did it on purpose, ain’t like she _knows_ , but it still makes his hackles rise, still makes his voice go all loud and harsh and _mean_ when he says, “What about my folks? What about _yours_ , huh? Don’t you got someone back home who gives a shit about your teenybopper ass? Somebody who ain’t gonna get no sleep tonight ’cause’a you?”

Beth rears back like he slapped her— _shit_ —and honestly, he wouldn’t even blame her if she called him an asshole and threw her Coke in his face, but all she does is purse her lips and say, quietly, “You don’t get it.”

“Yeah?” Fuck, _fuck_ , _why_ is he still talking? Why can’t he seem to stop himself from acting like a dick even when he _knows_ that what he’s doing is wrong? Does he really have that much of his old man in him? “It don’t seem to me like there’s much to _get_. Can tell from lookin’ at you that they ain’t been slapping you around. So what the hell is it, huh? You tryna teach ’em a lesson ’cause they didn’t buy you a pet pony for your birthday?”

 _Now’s_ the part where she throws her soda in his face, or gets up and slaps him, and he’d let her do either of those things if she wanted. He wouldn’t fight back, and not just because she’s half his age and half his size. He’d deserve it. If she hit him, he’d deserve it.

She doesn’t hit him. She gets up outta her chair, yeah, but she doesn’t come over and hit him. She walks right on by him without looking at him and disappears into her room, and before Daryl can figure out what the hell she _is_ doing or get up and look for himself, she’s coming back, only now she’s got a small vase clutched in her skinny arms.

Nah, he realizes. Not a vase.

An urn.

He still asks, “What’s that?” because maybe he’s wrong. He’s gotta be wrong, actually, ’cause he ain’t never heard of somebody toting an urn around in their backpack, and if he’s never heard of it, then it’s not a thing, because he’s seen some shit.

“Not what.” Beth sets the urn down on the table and plunks _her_ ass down in the chair, keeping one protective hand curled around it. “Who. It’s my mom.”

Something deep in Daryl’s gut twists like he’s gonna be sick. Her mom, huh? Or what used to be her mom now sealed in glazed clay urn the color of pine needles. His mom’s ash, too, ash and burnt bones, but not because his dad shelled out money they didn’t have to get her cremated. Nah, that’s just what happens when your house burns down around you and takes you with it.

“What’re you, uh. What’re you doin’ with it?” He’d say he’s not sure why he asks, except, yeah, he is. There’s gotta be one hell of an explanation behind something as absurd as a teenager running away from home with her dead mom’s remains in tow.

Beth curls both hands around the urn and drags it into her lap, cradling it like a baby, like she’s afraid someone’ll try to take it away from her if she doesn’t hang onto it.

“It’s just—I don’t wanna leave her sealed up in some urn. That’s almost as bad as rotting in a coffin, y’know?” She takes a deep breath like she needs to steady herself, or maybe she’s just stalling while she tries to get her thoughts together. Either way, what she ends up saying is, “I wanna take her someplace. Someplace nice. I wanna get her out of this urn.” 

Daryl doesn’t know why she’s sharing this with him. Sure, he asked—pretty much bullied her into proving the shitty things he was saying wrong—but she didn’t have to answer. She doesn’t owe him shit, and now she’s opening up a wound just to justify her actions to a guy she doesn’t know from Adam.

He picks at the stitching on the comforter. Clears his throat and thinks that he could use something to drink, too, actually. “Yeah? Where?”

“Um.” She smiles, but there’s a self-deprecating slant to it. “I was thinkin’ the Grand Canyon. But that’s kinda cliché, ain’t it?”

 _Kinda_? Daryl wants to ask her what sorta bullshit Hallmark movies she’s been watching, to get a thought like that in her head, but he’s already been enough of an asshole for one night, so he curbs his nastier impulses and settles for a shrug.

“Ain’t my business,” he says, because it’s really not.

“Guess it’s not.” Beth jerks her chin at the pile of snacks on the table, and Daryl figures that’s the end of that. “Sure you don’t want anything?”

He looks at the bottled water, at the beads of condensation dripping down the grooved plastic, but he feels kinda weird taking something that this girl, this kid, bought with her own money. Does she even have enough on her to last till she gets to the Grand Canyon or wherever it is she’s going?

Before he can make up his mind about the water, though, there’s another knock on the door, and this one definitely came from up front. Beth startles like a deer and hugs the urn to her chest, and Daryl tenses, too. At first, he just figures that somebody’s just got the wrong room, but then they knock again and call through the door, muffled, “’Scuse me? Anybody in there?”

“D’you think you should answer it?” Beth whispers.

The person on the other side of the door knocks again, and, shit, but Daryl’s starting to think that ignoring them probably won’t work. He still thinks it’s some drunk who confused his room for theirs, but he knows how to handle assholes who can’t hold their liquor, so he figures he can handle whoever the hell this is, too.

Only it’s not some drunk. It’s not even some random asshole. It’s the squirrely-looking night clerk, the one with the lank, greasy hair and the stupid-ass goatee. Axel, if you believe his nametag, which Daryl doesn’t. Who in the fuck names their kid _Axel_? 

“Uh.” The night clerk scratches his cheek, bitten-down nails rasping through his stubble. “Howdy. Sorry to bother you at this hour, but we just got a report from another guest, and I wanted to swing on by to make sure everything was copacetic.”

Daryl’s eyebrows pull together. “Report? What kinda report?”

Axel looks at Daryl like he wishes he hadn’t asked. “Uh,” he stammers, tripping over his own tongue like it’s a goddamn banana peel. “Well, the things is—and I’m sure this’s all just a big misunderstanding—they claim they saw a young girl get out of your truck and follow you to your room.” Axel blows a nervous laugh out through his nose that stirs the hairs in his mustache, all self-deprecating like he just can’t wait to apologize again. “But, y’know, it’s real late, real dark, and half the lights around here ain’t workin’ right. Been meaning to fix ’em myself, but you know how it is. Stuff just gets away from you, y’know?”

Daryl’s not listening. He hasn’t _been_ listening since Axel said _young girl_ and _followed you to your room_. His blood’s rushing in his ears like the sound of the ocean, and Axel’s lips are closing as he trails off, still smiling all apologetically behind his mustache but darting looks over Daryl’s shoulder like he expects to see something, too, and Daryl’s face flushes hot with shame even though he’s got nothing to be ashamed _about_ —

“Somethin’ wrong, Daddy?”

Daryl just about jumps out of his skin when he feels something warm brush up against his side, and leans away from the contact to find that Beth’s appeared at his elbow, blinking up at Axel with wide Bambi eyes that make her look even younger than she actually is, all confused innocence with a touch of nerves.

“There a problem, sir?” she asks, voice warbling a little like she’s afraid she’s in trouble, and her little act fucking _works_ , because now Axel’s tripping over his own tongue again to reassure her.

“No, no—no problem at all, honey. Sorry again for disturbing y’all. Just wanted to make sure everything’s alright. You go and get some sleep now, huh?” He bobs his head at Daryl, still looking like he expects a punch, and turns to scurry off across the parking lot and pack to reception like the devil’s on his heels.

Beth’s the one who has to shut the door, because Daryl’s in too much of a daze to bother. The click of the lock snaps him out of it, though, and then he’s rounding on her, hackles back up.

“What the hell was all that?”

Beth shrugs, hands clasped behind her back, looking like sugar wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “I panicked, okay? And I got him to back off, didn’t I?”

Yeah, Daryl supposes that’s true. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna concede it. “I ain’t your damn dad,” he says, because, yeah, _that’s_ what’s important here.

Beth must think it’s a pretty stupid thing to fuss over, too, ’cause she says, “No, really? Does that mean you don’t want me to get you anything for Father’s Day?”

Jesus _fucking_ Christ. “Just—go to fuckin’ bed already. It’s almost one in the goddamn morning, and I ain’t gonna wait around for your ass to wake up come checkout time.” 

Beth’s smirk doesn’t suit her face. “Yes, Dad,” she drawls, as cloyingly sweet as a jar of molasses, and darts off into her room before Daryl can kick her ass, pulling the door shut behind her.

Daryl stands there and fumes for a minute before heading to the nightstand to check his charging phone. He’s got five missed calls and fourteen text messages—all from Merle, because of course they are—but he doesn’t respond to any of them. Just turns the phone over, scrubs his face, and eyes the pile of snacks Beth left behind. 

Fuck it. He goes over there, unscrews the cap on the bottle of water, and takes a long draw that's cool on his parched throat.

It ain't what he really wants—and what he _really_ wants is to knock back something cheap and alcoholic until he blacks the fuck out—but if the past twenty-four hours or so have proven anything, it's that the universe at large doesn't really give a fuck about what he wants, so it'll have to do. 


End file.
